


John's Story

by Periphyton



Series: An Angel's Touch [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And he is very good at his job, Aziraphale makes consent sexy, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy ending with a new lease on life, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Outsider, Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sometimes Aziraphale uses sex for an angelic blessing as part of his job, Suicidal Thoughts, Workplace bullying and burnout is terrible, poetry is sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24363307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Periphyton/pseuds/Periphyton
Summary: The river.In his mind John saw the river, the water moving slowly under the bridge. “NO!” He choked and sputtered and pulled away. “No! I’m not – what are you – why did you - ?”Ezra didn’t react to John breaking out of the embrace. “You looked like you needed a hug,” he said simply.“You didn’t have to do that! You don’t have to do anything to -to pay me or – anything – for crashing here,” he snarled.“I know,” Ezra continued in the same calm, level voice. “I don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to do anything. But I can choose to hug you, if you want. When was the last time someone held you, John?”
Series: An Angel's Touch [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1442596
Comments: 31
Kudos: 41





	1. Meeting at the bridge

Once upon a time there had been a little boy named John. He had loved going to church, playing in the creek, looking for frogs, riding his bike, and being friends with other boys. He liked singing in the children’s choir, and going to boy scouts. 

Once upon a time there had been a teenager named John, who was the best at bible study so everybody knew what a good Christian he was. He got straight A’s in biology and chemistry so he could be a doctor and his father would be proud of him. He didn’t date because he was keeping himself for marriage.

Once upon a time there was a college student named John, who still got straight A’s and told his family that he was just waiting to meet the right girl. His father wasn’t too sure about his son taking a class in Evolutionary Biology but he had to take that for his biology degree. He never told anybody about the crush he had on the TA for his English poetry class, but he kept the book the young man had signed and gifted to him. 

Once upon a time a medical student named John, who was the gunner in his class because if he worked hard enough to be perfect, that would explain why he had no time to keep a girlfriend or church.

Even the best student can wear out, and when John started making rounds in his third year of medical school at the local hospital he broke down and for two weeks he could barely get out of bed. Of course that had nothing to do with watching another man bring flowers to his husband’s room while he recovered from a knee replacement. But John never went back into medicine.

Once upon a time there was a man named John, with over half the debt of medical school but no MD, so he got a job at a biotech company in a new city. He was already used to an 80 hour work week so 50 hours a week in the lab doing cytokine purification and column chromatography was no problem. Working weekends was fine because it was quieter without coworkers around. 

Once upon a time there was a research associate named John, who took pride in his work. He liked to think about the scientists and doctors who bought the products he created, and explained that if doing biomedical research on AIDS, cancer, or the immune system was like repairing an old car or going fishing, his company was like where you bought your car parts or tackle gear. He was especially proud of when he had the opportunity to troubleshoot a protein that was difficult to purify and write a new and improved SOP. 

Now there was only a John shaped body with an ID badge who pushed that body to move through the day in order to get the paycheck required to keep the body moving for another day so that it could get what was required to keep moving the though the next day to get what was required to keep moving through the next day to get what was required to keep moving – until one day John couldn’t force the body to keep moving anymore. 

John stood on the bridge looking over the river. It would be nice not to go into work tomorrow, he thought. He had just submitted two finished proteins to QC, his E. coli samples were still in the freezer, and it didn’t matter if nobody got to his rmIL-15 dialysis until it was too late because that never refolded properly anyway and always precipitated out of solution. At least it wouldn’t be his problem anymore. His rent was paid up and the only other living things in his apartment were a bunch of half dead succulents. He hadn’t spoken to his family in years, not since The Thanksgiving Dinner Which Will Never Be Spoken Of Again. 

It was in that weird spot of time between very late at night and very early in the morning, so it wasn’t like he was even going to bother anybody. It was just nice standing there, looking at the city lights reflecting off the river, and thinking about not going to work in the morning. There was nobody around him, nobody at all, except –

“Excuse me, I’ve gotten terribly turned around here, and I’m not completely sure where I am. Do you know what time it is?” 

John reluctantly turned away from the river to look at the man standing next to him. He looked pale, wearing a coat and hat, and sounded like he just stepped out of an old BBC documentary. It was hard to see anything more in the orange glow from the street lights but he probably wasn’t a mugger. 

“What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night, call a taxi and go home,” John was in no mood to deal with this.

“Yes, that would be the best thing to do, except that I’m not home. I was attending a convention and I decided to stay a few days longer to visit this lovely city as a tourist, but now I’ve gotten lost and I don’t know how to get back to my hotel. Do you know when the next bus comes by?” The stranger looked at him hopefully. 

“The buses don’t run this late.” He sighed and rubbed his face. The river would still be here tomorrow. “I’ll give you a ride back to your hotel.”

“Oh thank you, that’s ever so kind. My name is Ezra Fell, by the way.” The man smiled, beaming at him really, which was very irritating. Nonetheless John somehow found himself driving through the empty downtown streets to a cheap motel. It just got weirder (ie more irritating) from there.

He didn’t remember Ezra putting a suitcase in his car, but when they got to the motel he asked John to carry it out for him. Then the desk clerk told Ezra that he had paid only enough for yesterday and had to check out right now or pay for another night. Of course the Englishman was out of money, and since his flight wasn’t until the day after tomorrow, if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, he promised he wouldn’t interfere with anything . . . ?

“Fine, you can crash at my place for a day as long as you don’t complain about the mess.” John snapped at him. The motel was only five minutes from his apartment anyway. Which is how at 4:30 am he found himself pushing a pile of laundry off the couch for a stranger who had the most nuclear powered puppy dog eyes he had ever encountered. He sent a brief email to his micromanaging team lead from hell and went to bed. 

John woke up somewhere well past noon but stayed in bed staring at the ceiling. He knew the drag of exhaustion in the marrow of his bones like an old friend, such that even getting up to go to the bathroom was a struggle. But unlike the usual sounds of silence he endured when the melancholy hit, this time he lay in bed listening to someone moving outside his room. Someone was cleaning dirty dishes, then cooking, and soon he could smell steak. That damned Englishman he had picked up last night was cooking and the smells of it cut through the dullness in his mind and went straight to his stomach. It finally got to be too much and he pushed himself out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and went to face his guest.

“Good afternoon!” Ezra smiled at him as John gaped, open mouthed, trying to take in the scene before him. His kitchen was clean, the counters wiped down, the table cleared off and covered with his one tablecloth that was supposed to be in a storage closet. There was a lit candle, places set for two with wine glasses, a pitcher of orange juice, steak, salad, and grapes in a bowl. 

“What the hell are you doing?” John snapped, and then felt ashamed. “I mean, you didn’t have to do that.”

“No, but you didn’t have to pick me up either.” Ezra continued to beam at him. Now in daylight John finally got a good look at him. The man looked just as middle aged as he was, with hazel blue-green-grey eyes and fluffy white blond hair. There was a settled feeling about him, a sense of internal balance that could move confidently in another man’s kitchen halfway around the world from home. His eyes were kind. 

“Please sit down and join me,” Ezra said, and poured the orange juice into the wine glasses. 

John walked over to the table, stiff and awkward, and sat down like a guest in his own kitchen while the actual guest served the food. Ezra raised the wineglass in a toast. “L’chaim!”

“Um, yeah, cheers,” John clinked his glass against Ezra’s and the meal began.

“So, you said you were here for business?” John asked. It had been ages since he’d eaten with anyone outside of birthday lunches with the lab team, and the last time that happened nobody spoke a word to him but the waitress. 

Ezra finished his steak and refilled his glass with more orange juice. “Yes. I own a bookshop in London, and I was here for a convention on rare and antique books. I don't get many opportunities back home to find vintage Americana so I thought I’d pop over the pond and look for something new for my store.” He took a sip of his orange juice and wiped his mouth daintily with a napkin. “And yourself? What do you do for a living?”

John shrugged. It was always interesting to try and explain his very technical scientific job to non-scientists, and Ezra seemed to be a few sequences short of a genome. “I purify cytokines and E. coli derived antigens by column chromatography.” As expected, that got a completely blank stare. John switched to his go-to metaphor to explain how boring his job really was. “Basically it’s a manufacturing job. I make widgets called cytokines, which are proteins cells use to communicate with each other. So if doing biomedical research is like doing, um, gardening, then my company is where you buy gardening supplies, and it’s my job to keep growing about a dozen types of plants for people to buy.”

“How lovely! You must be very proud of your work,” Ezra said, beaming at him.

“Yeah,” he grunted. Talking about his job, he felt the dullness creep back into his mind and body. Eating and listening to Ezra talk had distracted him but now all he could see his lab bench, with all its equipment, perfectly labeled bottles of chemical solutions and buffers, and notebooks full of protocols and SOPs. A sterile, empty place where nobody really looked at him, and neither success or failure seemed to matter – there was always more work to do. 

He got up and took his plate to the sink. Dinner was done and he was still tired. This stupid man crashing into his life would be gone by tomorrow morning and the river would still be there. But when he turned around to get the rest of the food on the table he walked straight into Ezra’s open arms, which then closed around him in a hug. 

The shock of being touched, of being held, by another person was enough for John to freeze. He wanted to pull away, to hug back, to push him away in disgust, and to bury his face into another man’s shoulder and cry. Too many emotional cross currents left him just standing there, shaking slightly, while Ezra continued to hug him despite the lack of response. “It’s alright John, you’re going to be ok,” Ezra said softly.

_The river._ In his mind John saw the river, the water moving slowly under the bridge. “NO!” He choked and sputtered and pulled away. “No! I’m not – what are you – why did you - ?”

Ezra didn’t react to John breaking out of the embrace. “You looked like you needed a hug,” he said simply. 

“You didn’t have to do that! You don’t have to do anything to -to pay me or – anything – for crashing here,” he snarled.

“I know,” Ezra continued in the same calm, level voice. “I don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to do anything. But I can choose to hug you, if you want. When was the last time someone held you, John?”

He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone even touched him for more than a business handshake. He just watched, frozen, as Ezra Fell took one step towards him, then another, and placed his hand lightly on John’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything,” he repeated, his voice soft as feather down. “I don’t have to do anything. But I would like to hold you, because you’ve been kind to me and you are lonely.”

He closed his eyes and finally surrendered to what the other man was offering. The river would still be there tomorrow but Ezra Fell was here right now, letting him bury his head into his shoulder, one strong arm around his waist, then guiding him back to the sofa. John was laying half in his lap and Ezra held him as he cried. Wept. The deep, wrenching, body shaking cries of a man who had forgotten how to cry. Through it all Ezra just held him, stroking his back, handing him tissues, and doing nothing that would calm him down. No ‘shhhh, it’s all right,’ no murmuring soft words to reassure him that everything would be ok, no humming something under his breath. He let John cry as long as he needed to. 

Finally John was sobbing softly, then whimpering, then blew his nose one last time. He slowly sat up and Ezra handed him a glass of water. He said nothing, simply sat there, listening to whatever John would say whenever he was ready to say it. 

“I can’t go back to work tomorrow,” John finally said, his voice raw from crying.

“No,” Ezra agreed. “You won’t. Ever. You are more than that place. Your life is so much more than that job. Than any job.” 

John sighed and the last of the tension left him. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. 

“Why don’t you take a shower?” Ezra suggested. John made some sort of strangled sound that might have been a snort of bitter laughter. “Hot water pouring over your head always makes things better. Go, I’ll be here when you’re done.” He gave John a soft kiss on his forehead. 

The shower did help. If he stayed in there longer than usual, well, there was a strange Englishman in his front room that had held him while he bawled like a baby, then kissed his head. John wasn’t a virgin, with either women or men, but he had never really been able to connect with a lover. The few times he had tried to pick up a boyfriend after The Thanksgiving Dinner Which Will Never Be Spoken Of Again fizzled out quickly, and his attempts with girlfriends as a young man – well. In the end it was always safer to just stay in the lab and keep working. A perfectly safe little closet, complete with a white lab coat, 3M safety glasses, pH meter, fume hood, HPLC, his own set of pipettes and the type of scientific glassware that non-lab people thought were props from Breaking Bad.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Nothing special, just a tired looking middle-aged man with a belly, spindly arms, going bald and two days past needing a shave. Nothing young or hot or some cute piece of ass. But at least he was clean now, and he couldn’t stay in the bathroom forever. He put on a pair of briefs and his bathrobe and stepped out. 

His guest was sitting on the couch in tartan flannel button down pajamas reading an old book, the lamplight turning his blond curls into a halo. The sight made John’s heart ache. He knew that other men came out of the shower to see their husbands sitting on the couch reading a book, he had just never been able to see himself included in that scenario. He shivered. 

Ezra looked up and smiled at him, and patted the spot on the couch next to him. John saw it then, starkly: he could shake his head and go back into his bedroom alone, or walk over and sit next to a man who had held him simply because he wanted to. _Two roads diverged in a yellow wood . . ._


	2. Words of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me not, in mournful numbers,  
> Life is but an empty dream!  
> For the soul is dead that slumbers,  
> And things are not what they seem.
> 
> Life is real! Life is earnest!  
> And the grave is not its goal;  
> Dust thou art, to dust returnest,  
> Was not spoken of the soul.
> 
> Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,  
> Is our destined end or way;  
> But to act, that each tomorrow  
> Find us farther than today.”

John walked over and sat down. “What are you reading?” he asked, trying to smile.

The smile he got back was like the sun coming out. “The Psalm of Life, By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I’ve loved his work from the first time I heard him,” he said, and started to read out loud.

“Tell me not, in mournful numbers,  
Life is but an empty dream!  
For the soul is dead that slumbers,  
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!  
And the grave is not its goal;  
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,  
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,  
Is our destined end or way;  
But to act, that each tomorrow  
Find us farther than today.”

John watched Ezra read to him. Ezra Fell loved these words, and that love was laid bare on his face, in his eyes, and rang like music in his voice rising and falling with the cadence of each line and verse. He knew if this strange, beautiful man hadn’t stopped to ask him for directions he would be dead by now. Instead he was here, alive, listening to another man speaking passionately of life. Ezra paused for breath and continued.

“Lives of great men all remind us  
We can make our lives sublime,  
And, departing, leave behind us  
Footprints on the sands of time;-

Footprints, that perhaps another,  
Sailing o’er lifes’ solemn main,  
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,  
Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing,  
With a heart set for any fate;  
Still achieving, still pursuing,  
Learn to labor and to wait.”

Ezra finished and turned to John, smiling, his face radiant from his joy in the poem. John smiled back, a small smile, shy, but real. “Do you, um, is there – another poem you like?” he asked. 

“Oh yes, of course.” Ezra flipped to another page and began to read again. “Going down Hill on a Bicycle, by Henry Charles Beeching.

“With lifted feet, hands still,  
I am poised, and down the hill  
Dart, with heedful mind;  
The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift;  
Till the heart with a mighty lift  
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:  
‘O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

‘Is this, is this your joy?  
O bird, then I, though a boy,  
For a golden moment share  
Your feather life in the air!’

Say, heart, is there aught like this  
In a world that is full of bliss?  
‘Tis more than skating, bound  
Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float  
Awhile in my airy boat;  
Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,  
My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill  
Must end in a vale; but still,  
Who climbs with toil, wheresoe’er,  
Shall find wings waiting there.”

This time John smiled, remembering a boyhood dirt trails, old five gear bikes, sunburns and scraped and skinned knees.

“Is there any poetry you like?” Ezra asked him. 

“Yeah. I had to take a lit class for my undergrad and - just a minute.” He got up and went over to a shelf to get ‘The Oxford Book of English Verse,’ printed in 1940. He read the note the TA had written on the first page again and returned to the couch. The poem he was looking for was still bookmarked.

“Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Farewells from Paradise.

“Think a little, while ye hear,   
Of the banks  
Where the willows and the deer  
Crowd in intermingled ranks,  
As if all would drink at once  
Where the living water runs!  
Of the fishes’ golden edges  
Flashing in and out the sedges;  
Of swans on silver thrones,  
Floating down the winding streams   
With impassive eyes turned shoreward  
And a chant of undertones,--  
And the lotus leaning forward  
To help them into dreams.  
Fare ye well, farewell!  
The river-sounds, no longer audible,  
Expire at Eden’s door.  
Each footstep of your treading  
Treads out some murmur which ye heard before.  
Farewell! the streams of Eden  
Ye shall hear nevermore!”

John still loved the poem that Sam had read to him back in college. It reminded him of the small stream from his childhood, now lost to a housing development. After Ezra’s poem about riding a bike he thought this would be a good follow up. Instead he heard Ezra take a small, sharp breath of pain. 

He looked up and saw the other man looking into the distance. He still looked beautiful but almost unbearably sad, the weight of some deep loss bowing down his shoulders, grief shadowed in his eyes and the tucked corners of his mouth.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – Ezra, what’s wrong?” He leaned over and put a hand on his knee.   
Ezra put his hands over John’s. “I’m fine, my dear boy. Everyone has an Eden to lose, I guess.” The corners of his mouth curved upwards into a slight smile, but that didn’t touch the sadness in his eyes. 

“I suppose. I’m sorry you lost yours,” John said softly. Ezra gave his hand a squeeze but said nothing. John felt again how surreal this all felt, this one night like a glowing bubble of time set aside from the iron schedule of real life. On any other night he might not have done anything, but this night’s magic gave him the courage to try something new. He turned his hand around and held Ezra’s, then brought his hand up to his mouth and kissed it. 

Ezra turned back to him and smiled as he had when John chose to sit with him rather than retreat to the bedroom, the grief and sadness vanished. “Oh John, thank you,” he said, and cupped his cheek in his hand, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb. Then he leaned forward stopping inches away from John’s face, his mouth open for a kiss. 

John closed his eyes, leaned forward, and kissed him. 

It should have been an awkward kiss but Ezra knew what he was doing even if John did not. Instead it was tender, a giving of comfort instead of lust. When Ezra pulled away, he kept his hand on John’s face. “I know I said I didn’t have to do anything, and you don’t have to do anything, but I’d like to do more, if you want to.” 

John pulled back a little. “You really want me?” he asked, his voice wavering, uncertain. 

“Yes. Tomorrow I go back to England, but tonight can be ours. For love, or more poetry, or anything else you wish.”

“How about love and poetry?” John asked, and saw the shift in Ezra’s expression from kindness to desire. He leaned in for another kiss, this time with more passion. And passion was what he got back, Ezra’s mouth opening under his, the kiss became a thing of meeting tongues and nipping teeth. Then Ezra’s other hand slipped under the front of John’s bathrobe and he ran his fingers through the curly hair at his chest before bringing it to rest over a nipple. John gasped at the touch and pulled out of their kiss.

“So you want love _and_ poetry?” Ezra said, his eyes dark. “How about this:

The red rose whispers of passion,  
And the white rose breaths of love;  
O, the red rose is a falcon,  
And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud  
With a flush on its petal tips;  
For the love that is purest and sweetest  
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.” 

John laughed at that. “A cream-white rosebud? Is _that_ what you’re calling it?”

Ezra laughed with him. “By John Boyle O’Reilly, A White Rose. Only one way to find out. But my hair really is this blond - all over.” Then he leaned in for another kiss, this one even more heated than the last.

John returned the kiss at first, but even as he felt his own desire grow, he pulled away, uncertain. It had been so long since another person had even touched him, let alone kissed him, that he just didn’t know what to do with himself. 

“John?” Ezra pulled back and removed his hands. “Anything you want. Or not.”

“I -I -I don’t know what I want. I want - I want you, but I – I don’t –“

“John, close your eyes, here, hold my hand,” Ezra told him, and he did. “Take a breath. It’s ok. Everything is going to be ok. Don’t think about it. just tell me, what do you want?”

“I want to feel alive again. I want you to make me feel like I exist. I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m already dead.”

He opened his eyes and looked down at Ezra holding his hands. “Do you trust me?” Ezra said softly.

“Yes,” he whispered, and shuddered.

“Alright then.” Ezra stood up, still holding John’s hands. “The night is young, and you deserve every joy life can bring you, so let me bring you this one.” 

John let himself be led to his own bedroom. For a split second he thanked whatever divine forces that might exist that he had just cleaned his room the night before so there was no dirty underwear, old socks, or dried up bowls of leftover food in his room to greet his lover-to-be for the night. If his bed wasn’t made, well, at least the sheets were clean. 

It didn’t seem to matter to Ezra. He looked around and then walked John to the bed, still holding his hands. When they sat down Ezra finally let go, only to place a hand on John's neck and draw him in for a deep kiss. With his other hand he tugged at John’s bathrobe until it fell open. Then he pulled back and pulled the robe down off his shoulders. “Lay down on your stomach,” he told him.

John obeyed. He would trust whatever Ezra had planned for him. He let himself relax at the touch of Ezra’s hands as he massaged his shoulders, neck, and back. Maybe he had a secret bottle of lotion hidden in his tartan pajama pockets, John didn’t know and didn’t care. The man’s hands were worm and strong as he found every knotted muscle and tight nerve and soothed them, releasing the tension held in John's body. Then his hands went lower to massage his lower back, butt, and hips. It was still just a massage until Ezra worked his way down to John's feet and started working his way back up with a trail of kisses. He kissed John up each vertebrae of his spine until the length of his body was completely pressed against the other man’s. Somewhere in all of this Ezra’s pyjamas had come off and John could feel the weight of him on himself, the bare touch of skin against skin pressing on him from his shoulders to his thighs, and the nudge of a half-formed erection. 

Then Ezra was kissing his neck, his ear, sucking at the delicate skin just below it. John gasped and clutched at the blankets as the other man shifted himself across his body to move one knee between his legs. Then a hand followed down, trailing down over his ass and slipping into the cheeks. John groaned when he felt one finger pressing against him but not penetrating.

Ezra nipped hard at an earlobe before whispering into his ear, “May I?”

John gasped. “Yes! Please! There’s some lube in the drawer –“

“Got it.” The warmth and weight left and John half rolled over to look at Ezra. The man really was that blond all over, rounded and solidly built. It made John feel a little less self-conscious about his own love handles. When Ezra turned back and saw John looking at him, he spread his hands out and struck a pose. “Do you like what you see?”

He almost laughed at that. Did he like what he saw? How on God’s green earth could he NOT take in the vision in front of him: Ezra standing naked before him, his light skin and white-blond curls nearly glowing in the soft lamplight. His soft chest was covered with curls only slightly darker blond than his hair, plump nipples like small plums, and a round belly curving over into a nest of curls with a truly beautiful rosebud with a flush on its petal tips standing at attention. John already knew the weight of those solid thighs against his own legs. Ezra Fell was a thing of beauty to behold, naked and completely confident in his body. 

“Damn, you’re beautiful,” John said.

“Thank you, so are you.” 

John looked away. “No I’m not. I’m too old. And boring.”

“Stop it.” Ezra’s voice was fim, almost stern, for the first time. “You are beautiful. And you are not boring. No man who could read me a poem like that is boring.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m just being stupid, I didn’t mean to ruin the evening.” He felt himself grow tense despite everything Ezra had done to relax him.

He felt the dip in the bed where Ezra sat down next to him, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You are not boring - you’re bored. You are burned out and exhausted and you feel like you have nothing to live for, but that does not make you any less deserving of life, or of love.” John winced, and felt that warm hand tighten on his shoulder. “Tomorrow is a new day, and you will still be here to meet it and can find new reasons to live. But tonight is ours. Please, let me love you and show you how beautiful you are.” 

The hand moved to stoke his short, thinning hair and John relented, nodding, giving Ezra the consent he asked for. Ezra thought he was beautiful and desirable even if he felt like nothing more than boring, middle aged failure, and getting laid was better than being dead. It had been a very long time since someone had kissed the back of his neck while running their hands down his back and sides, grabbing his ass, sliding their hands into it. John couldn’t remember if anybody had ever kissed their way down his back, or had been so gentle opening him up. 

“Roll over, I want to look at you, watch you enjoy this,” Ezra told him, and withdrew his fingers. John whimpered at the loss of contact as he rolled onto his back. He looked up at Ezra, his hair an angel’s halo in the dim light, looking down at him like he truly was desirable. And for that brief shining moment, he actually felt that he was. Then Ezra was kissing him roughly, biting and demanding his mouth while one hand worked at a nipple, rubbing and then pinching hard enough that John gasped at the edge of pain and arousal. 

Ezra pulled back, gave him another hard pinch, then rested his palm flat against John’ chest, his touch gentle where he had just been rough. “What do you want? Anything I can give you is yours.” 

John looked up into those grey hazel eyes, now blown wide with desire but still in control of himself. “You,” he gasped. “I want you, just you. Take me as hard as you want, just make it feel good. Make me feel alive again.” He placed his hand over Ezra’s. “I want more, like this.” 

Ezra nodded. “I can do that.” He leaned back down and kissed him gently, kissed and nibbled down his jaw to nuzzle against his ear. “So you want pleasure that’s hard enough to be pain, with a gentle touch?” John barely managed a subverbal whimper of consent before Ezra bit hard down hard on his earlobe while one hand rolled and massaged his other nipple. 

It went like that. John had given permission, and his lover for the night took it and ran with it. Every touch, no matter how hard or rough was also somehow gentle, never more painful than the pleasure it brought. He cried out as Ezra worked every tender spot, every pinch or bite followed by a kiss or soft touch. Soft, smooth hands turned out to be strong enough to pin him down completely, unable to jerk in reaction to a bite at the junction of his thigh and groin that would leave a mark for the next three days, which was followed by the tenderest of kisses. His own hands were tied above his head with a tartan bow tie and by now he was crying out and almost sobbing with the need for release.

Then finally, _finally_ , Ezra took him into his mouth, his fingers reaching inside him again. First one slick finger, then another, twisting around until they found just the right spot. John’s vision went white and he bucked his hips against Ezra’s hand and mouth. Then Ezra stopped everything he was doing. He withdrew his hands and mouth, and lined up the tip of his cock with John’s hole. 

“How do you want this? Hard, slow, or fast?” He asked, like he was asking if John wanted cream or sugar with his tea. 

“Fuck just make it good!” John said, groaning, when he realized that Ezra was perfectly capable of holding himself steady against his hole without moving until John actually used words to say something. 

“I believe I can do that,” Ezra said, and pushed himself all the way in with one slow, smooth stroke. John groaned again at the pressure of feeling so full. He felt Ezra lean down against him, the shifting position changing the pressure and angle inside him. He looked up again into those eyes, looking down into his soul.

“ ‘But I send you a cream-white rosebud  
With a flush on its petal lips  
For the love that is purest and sweetest  
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.’ “

Ezra repeated the last verse of the poem, his face inches above Johns. “Do you believe me now? That you are beautiful and desirable, and deserve life, deserve love?” he asked softly. 

“Yes.” What else could John say, with the marks of Ezra’s desire for him fresh on his skin, the man’s cock fully sheathed in his body? “Yes, I believe you.”

“Good. You’ve been so good at this, I’m so proud of you. Be blessed, John.” Ezra kissed him and John felt like his body was filled with light. 

Then Ezra withdrew almost completely, and snapped his hips forward. _Hard_.

John didn’t last long after that. It had been so long, he was already at the edge of his peak, and after a few more thrusts one hit his prostate just right and pushed him over the edge into an orgasm. A back arching, toe curling orgasm, and he closed his eyes and cried out even as he felt Ezra come to his peak inside of him and heard the other man’s ragged breath. 

They collapsed into each other, sweaty and sticky but very satisfied. John felt Ezra unbind his hands and lower his arms back down, then wrap his own arms around John and hold him close, cradling the back of his head. John didn’t realize he was crying until Ezra wiped the tears off his face. He didn’t know why he was crying, just that something had broken loose inside him and was now working its way out as hot tears silently running down his cheeks and onto Ezra’s bare chest. Again Ezra did nothing to stop the flow of tears, instead he held John close, their naked bodies pressed together. 

At last the tears slowed and finally stopped. John drifted to sleep, the last thing he was aware of was Ezra cleaning him up with a warm, damp towel.

~~~***~~~ 

Aziraphale looked down at John, asleep and snoring. He was glad he had stopped to help him, even though John wasn’t part of his orders for this trip. He had done this simply because he wanted to, and the fact that helping John had included sex was a nice bonus as well. Aziraphale had learned how to enjoy sex with humans, when the occasion called for it. It was never specifically part of an assignment, never a direct order from Gabriel to have sex with a particular human, but sometimes it was the only way to reach one and like every other angelic technique he took pride in doing it well. The endocrine reaction in this corporation was certainly nice, much the same way food was nice. It didn’t matter to him if the person was male or female or any other variation of sex and gender. 

In both cases, the pleasure the angel took from food and sex was more than just the physical appreciation of the taste of the food or the rush of an orgasm. It was the gift that was given that meant the most to him. The gift of their trust, of giving themselves, a moment’s sharing of warmth and heat and physical connection. For some it meant they could take pleasure in their body for the first time in a long time, or for the first time ever, and that he could share it with them was something he never took for granted. 

John snorted and murmured something in his sleep and shifted around. Aziraphale stroked his thinning hair to soothe him and he settled under the angel’s hand. Had John been in need of a woman’s touch, Aziraphale could have done that too: his corporation’s default was male but it wasn’t hard to shift it to female for a short time if necessary, or to adjust the bone structure or melanin even. Although no matter what he did with his corporation his hair was always fluffy and curly, he simply could not get it straight. But John had needed a man’s touch tonight, which also happened to be Aziraphale’s personal preference. The angel who could not fit his own love of the world into the confines of proper heavenly decorum had leaned to seek them out, those people whose bodies and desires lay outside of the biblical box humans created. To those souls he extended his protection, such as he could, beyond the guardianship of humanity that was his job description. And on nights like tonight when it was what they needed, he gave them his love.


	3. The morning after

The second thing that John was aware of was that there was another warm body in his bed. That wasn’t something that had happened in years, but it wasn’t surprising, considering that the first thing he was aware of was that he was still a bit sore from having sex last night. Wonderfully, deliciously sore, relaxed, and alive. All because of the warm body in bed next to him. John considered opening his eyes and getting up, but decided against it in favor of curling up closer to that wonderful solid warmth. That was nice, he got a hand stroking his hair for that, until it went away. There was a shift in Ezra’s position and a rustle of paper. 

John finally opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. He was half-entwined around Ezra, one arm around that glorious curved belly, one leg resting between his. Ezra himself was reading with a slightly smug smile on his face. He wasn’t quite ignoring John, more like choosing to read around him. 

“More poetry?” John mumbled, then yawned. 

“I generally don’t do poetry before breakfast, but for Walt Whitman I’ll make an exception.” Ezra explained, and turned the page.

“Never heard of him, sorry,” John said, and stretched a bit before settling back against his lover. 

“You’ve never read ‘Song of Myself’ by Walt Whitman? Heathen.” Ezra grumbled, and flipped back a few pages. 

”I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,  
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,  
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,  
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,  
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over upon me,  
And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart,  
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth,  
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,  
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,  
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,  
And that a kelson of the creation is love,  
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,  
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,  
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed.”

Ezra’s voice rang clear with his joy in these words and John closed his eyes and let them roll over him. He felt like he could happily spend the rest of his life lying naked in bed with Ezra reading poetry to him, with occasional breaks for food, sex, sleep, and changing the sheets. Unfortunately Ezra’s flight was in an hour and a half, and he really had to go to the bathroom. Reluctantly he pulled himself away from the other man’s warm body. Ezra looked up from his book with sad puppy eyes, so John kissed his shoulder in apology. “Bathroom,” he explained. 

“Of course. I’ve already used it. Do you want me to start breakfast, or be waiting here for you when you’re done?” Ezra asked.

John caught his breath. He knew what was being offered. “Wait for me,” he said, before he lost his nerve and started second-guessing himself, and made a strategic retreat for the bathroom. When he returned Ezra was waiting, the sheets pulled up to his waist while he reclined against the pillows, his blond curls sticking up everywhere, somehow managing to look both adorable and sexy at the same time.

“Thank you for last night,” John said, feeling awkward standing at the door to his own bedroom.

Ezra smiled. “It was my pleasure. Truly, it was,” he said, and John couldn’t help but smile back. “And I’ve got time for a little more fun, if you like.”

“I would like that,” John replied, “I would like that very much!” He sat down on the edge of the bed - and was promptly bopped on the head with one of his own pillows. 

“What the . . ?” he turned around to the glorious sight of Ezra, naked, on his knees and already half-erect, holding a pillow and grinning wildly. 

“When was the last time you had a little fun in bed?” he swung the pillow again.

“You think it is fun?” John rolled and grabbed the other pillow and started bashing Ezra back. It turned into a wonderful free for all, the two men bashing each other with pillows and laughing. John couldn’t remember ever laughing in bed before, let alone with another naked man. And this wasn’t just any man, this was Ezra. He laughed with his whole body, cheeks flushed, a deep belly laugh that actually shook his rounded belly and sides. He was fast, though, and stronger than he looked. It didn’t take long before John had the pillow knocked out of his hands and he was on his back with those soft hands pinning him down. 

He looked up into Ezra’s eyes that had gone grey with desire, and lifted his head and parted his lips for a kiss. Ezra leaned down to take his mouth, kissing him deeply. John felt the weight of the man on top of him, those thick thighs pressing down on his, strong hands on his arms, and a growing erection rubbing against his own. 

Finally Ezra pulled out of the kiss. “I want to taste you,” he said, and one hand moved downward to that soft spot where his hips curved into his groin.

“God, YES. _YES!_ ” If Ezra wanted to give him a blow job, John wasn’t going to stop him. 

Ezra started to move down him slowly, kissing as he went. He kissed the base of John’s throat, down his chest, making a detour to lavish some attention to each nipple while John cried out underneath him. Then he moved downward, leaving a trail of kisses down to his belly button, his hands moving down his sides. “Hello there beautiful, it’s so good to see you,” he said to the erect member in front of him, and then took the head into his mouth. 

What followed was the best blow job John had had in his life, and probably the best he ever would have. Ezra worked him with his mouth, tongue, and hands, holding him, stroking, licking, sucking, and finally taking him fully into his throat. John came when he did that, crying out as he felt Ezra try to suck his soul out of him and swallow the results. He faintly heard the sounds of Ezra reaching his own climax, then they both collapsed on the bed, holding each other as their breathing slowly calmed. 

John was crying. Not the body-slam sobs of last night’s breakdown, but the slow leak of tears down the sides of his face, old sorrow and shame released at last from behind all the bland, unmarked doors they had been stacked behind. And again Ezra did nothing to stop the flow of tears but simply held him close and let him cry. Until finally Ezra sighed, kissed his forehead, and shifted away. “I am so sorry, my dear, but my plane will be leaving soon, and I must prepare myself to leave you.” 

John could hear the sincere regret in the other man’s voice. They both knew this morning would have to come to an end, as much as John wanted to hold on to Ezra and never let go. _Don’t leave me,_ he cried out silently in his head, even as he nodded, wiped his face, and sat up. _I don’t want to be alone again._

After they had gotten dressed and Ezra had his bags in the car he pulled John into a hug. He didn’t say anything, just hugged him, and then got into the car. They were both quiet during the drive, and John pulled up to the airport drop off with reluctance. This was it, dropping Ezra off to return to England. He would have to return to his own home, alone, and face the consequences of still being alive. He helped Ezra with his luggage, and the two men faced each other, neither appearing to want to speak first. 

“Will I ever see you again?” John asked.

Ezra smiled and shook his head. “Probably not. I have my own life in London, and you have your life to keep living here. But I’m so glad I met you, and for what we shared.” He stepped forward and hugged John, then kissed him, thoroughly and openly. John hugged and kissed him back, trying to hold on to the last few seconds he had with the man he had met on the bridge. 

Ezra finally pulled back. “Be blessed. You have so much to live for,” he said, and John was once again caught by the light in his eyes shining through him like sunlight on clear water. Then he blinked and his eyes were just eyes, some indeterminate color between blue and green and grey. One last, final smile, and he was gone, walking away with his luggage into the airport. 

As John drove home he looked out the window and saw the city he lived in as though it had just started to exist for the first time. He had driven through these highways and roads for years without looking, but now every tree, every house, every crappy strip mall and fast food drive through looked fresh and new. He took a detour and parked, then walked out on the bridge where he had stood not two nights ago and considered not going back to work the next morning. 

He took a deep breath and felt the wind, damp and smelling of water. The sky was bright and clear, sunlight sparkling on the moving water below him and bouncing off the building and skyscrapers from the downtown city on the sides of the river. There were cars and people biking on the bridge around him, trees hugging the steep banks of the river, and sunlight warm on his face. When he got home he would have to call his company and let them know he wasn’t coming back. For now though, he stood at the side of the bridge in open daylight and felt the world filled with life all around him.

~~~***~~~

Aziraphale looked out the first class airplane window at the atmospheric clouds. His trip to the US had been a success and he couldn’t wait to get back to London and his bookshop. Crowley would be picking him up at the airport with two tickets for the latest production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and probably a box of his favorite biscuits as well.

Yes, it was a good trip. He had complained over several bottles of wine with Crowley when Gabriel had ordered him to do some work in the States but he had made it his own success. Before he left he had checked in on Sherrie and was pleased to see that she was working on staying sober and hadn’t picked up any more crappy boyfriends. Samantha was talking more, Abdi was doing much better as a father, T’Yanna was flourishing in her new school, and a certain pastor had repented and resigned. And John – Aziraphale hoped John was doing better. He had arranged it so that John would come home and find all of his plants healthy and growing, with a catalogue in the mail for classes in poetry and literature as well as a flyer for therapists specializing in GLBTQ+ people and depression. With a little more life in him he should have a better chance at finding another man to be with.

He sighed. Of all of them, John had been both the hardest and the easiest to help. The easiest, because Aziraphale had been talking people like him down off the ledge for almost as long as the angel had been on earth. For over two thousand years he had tried to explain to heaven how humans interpreted the Divine Writ to hurt each other, about this and so many other things. Each time Gabriel informed him that guilt was a useful tool to keep human souls in the confines of the Temple (or Church or Mosque – same difference, really). 

Aziraphale could never find the right way to explain the difference between guilt versus shame, self-hatred, and the petty destructive piety of controlling other people’s lives. After Oscar Wilde’s death he made one last impassioned plea that humans would choose another human who loved them over a heaven they perceived as rejecting them, and ultimately reject Her altogether. As Crowley would have said, it went down like a lead balloon. Given the way Sandalphon had been smirking at him over Gabriel’s shoulder, Aziraphale should consider himself lucky he got out of that as lightly as he did. After that he stopped trying to make Gabriel understand and quietly continued to help humans who stood outside of socially acceptable heteronormative sexuality.

John had been easy to help with that much experience, but he was also the hardest to help because he reminded Aziraphale of the stark difference between being an Angel versus being human: John had the free will to change. To change his job, change his religion, change his family, change his name, change almost anything about himself. Aziraphale could interpret his angelic duties as much as he wished, even outsource them to Crowley occasionally, but he could never not be an angel unless he wanted to become a demon. He couldn’t just tell Gabriel or Michael to fuck off, take their retirment plan and company logo and shove it because he had a better offer. And even though he knew full well just how few humans throughout history had the security to make choices he still sometimes env- marveled at their ability to change. 

It’s what made them so endlessly fascinating. They even had the choice to end their lives, if they were truly determined to do so. That so few humans took that final choice never ceased to take Aziraphale’s breath away (metaphorically). That indomitable drive to live at any cost had been a constant source of inspiration to the angel even when he grew weary of the unending churn of generation after generation. 

It was also why he had helped John, even though the man wasn’t part of his assignment. Aziraphale had been out walking on his own when he felt the man's pain radiating from him and went over to help. John had the freedom to change, to make choices, and Aziraphale had wanted to help him to choose his life instead of death. Death would have him eventually, as Death claimed every mortal, but not now, not quite yet. Not before John had had a chance to truly live instead of just survive. Aziraphale hoped he had given John enough of a nudge back into life that the man would stay there until he was ready to greet death as a welcome friend who came to give him a final rest after a long life well lived. 

The flight attendant came with snacks and drinks, and left. Aziraphale looked out over the Atlantic and up into the sky. John would be ok, he decided. He had been watching after humans from their very beginning and knew the patterns in their lives, the endless theme and variation from one generation to the next. From this perspective he could tell that John hadn’t truly desired death so much as an escape from the life he felt trapped in, and had only needed a solid nudge to start a new course. Aziraphale had chosen to give him that push simply because he wanted to, and because he could. Even if he didn’t have the same range of free will as a human, six millennia of proximity had had its effect on him and how he chose to be an angel. He sat there in an airplane, riding through the liminal space between ocean and sky and two continents in something only humans could have created, and thought about his trip to America. A job well done, he thought. And done on his own terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, all hell broke loose in my city right after I posted the 2nd chapter and that's taken up a lot of brain space to deal with. I was also stuck on finishing the morning scene. I've been safe, but it's still been a lot.
> 
> I wrote the descriptions in this story to be vague enough for any city with a bridge over a river, but in my head, its the Lake Street bridge over the Mississippi River, between St Paul and Minneapolis. Which is now even more meaningful after the protests and police confrontations that recently happened on that bridge. 
> 
> I'm glad I stuck with finishing this story, and thank you all for the lovely comments, I take each one to heart. I'm taking a short break from this fandom to write some stories for Avatar: The Last Airbender, because I'm an ecologist and can't not write about the science and physics of bending, with a side order of slice of life character development. Don't worry, I will come back to my favorite angel and demon. 
> 
> And thank you to GayDemonicDisaster, my lovely new beta. I really appreciate your help and support through all of this.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this story halfway finished a hundred years ago last October, BC (Before Corona). I finally made a point to finish it. 
> 
> While I'm not from a homophobic religious family and I'm not single, that was my old job. Every word, every description of John's job is exactly where I worked and what I did, including the coworkers. Like John I was deeply depressed, and it was only because of my family that I wasn't also standing over a bridge considering not going to work the next day. When I was fired from that job four years ago it was like the world around me existed for the first time. 
> 
> So this is the story of Aziraphale being there for John when he needed to be reminded that his life is more than pushing his body through empty space.


End file.
